She smiled awkwardly, too young to drink,
And I wondered was this her first time,
As her muddled words tumbled out,

    “It’s not bad news.”

She looked at me, half-expectantly,
Like a child on Christmas morning,
And I wondered was she silently
Counting to 8, or 10, or the exact seconds
Some think-tank had determined was
Right, under the circumstances.

    “Do you want to see the body?”

I shook my head, as the image
Of my father, ever a thin man in life,
Sat up on a gurney, bare-chested,
Wired up to bleeping machines,
Flooded my inner eye.  That was
The last time I saw him, and the
Last time I ever would, and that
Is how I always remember him.